


If I told you you had a nice body, would you hold it against me?

by involuntaryorange



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bad Pick-Up Lines, Crack, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 19:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20441096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/involuntaryorange/pseuds/involuntaryorange
Summary: After several months of mounting frustration, Crowley turns to the internet. Humans seem to have figured out relationships, he reasons; or, at least, they’ve figured out how to get into them, and that’s the part he needs help with. An hour of googling and two rather nice bottles of pinot noir later, he has a plan.a.k.a. the one where Crowley decides to try out some pick-up lines.





	If I told you you had a nice body, would you hold it against me?

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago I posted a few little snippets on Tumblr of Crowley trying out pick-up lines on Aziraphale and failing massively. I was so taken with the idea I decided to turn it into a whole fic.
> 
> Thanks to kedgeree11 for the beta, as always!

After Armageddidn’t, after Aziraphale finally abandoned “his” side (only a few millennia late, grumble grumble), after Aziraphale and Crowley literally_ went inside one another _ to thwart Heaven and Hell, Crowley thought that things might finally change.

And things _ have _ changed, a little. He sees Aziraphale every day, now; they’ve both dropped the pretense of needing end-of-the-world-related excuses to socialize, so most afternoons involve Crowley draped across a sofa in the back of Aziraphale’s shop, reading a trashy magazine while Aziraphale putters around discouraging people from making purchases. When the sun dips below the horizon, Aziraphale starts making noises about being hungry, and Crowley pretends that he needs to be persuaded to try out whatever new hole-in-the-wall eatery Aziraphale is excited about, and he sits at a small, wobbly table watching his angel savor every bite.

And when Aziraphale has cleaned his last plate, and dabbed the last of the crumbs from his mouth, and one or the other of them has paid the check and miracled a twenty-quid note into the tip jar, they go out into the night and part ways: Aziraphale heading for the musty amber warmth of his bookshop and Crowley dejectedly slinking toward his cold, empty flat and the cold, empty bed within.

He’s almost certain— he’s _ relatively _ certain— he _ suspects _ that Aziraphale feels the same way that he does; he doesn’t think he’s imagining Aziraphale’s hesitation when they part, or that last blessed foot of space between them that begs to be breached. But after they’ve spent six thousand years inching toward each other, Crowley has no idea how to take that final step, and Aziraphale seems to be equally clueless.

Finally, after several months of mounting frustration, Crowley turns to the internet. Humans seem to have figured out relationships, he reasons; or, at least, they’ve figured out how to get into them, and that’s the part he needs help with. An hour of googling and two rather nice bottles of pinot noir later, he has a plan.

****

Crowley cocks a hip against a bookshelf while Aziraphale rearranges some volumes. He clears his throat and Aziraphale looks at him expectantly.

“What’s a nice angel like you doing in a place like this?”

Aziraphale’s brows furrow. “This is my bookshop, Crowley.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And what, exactly, are you implying? That my bookshop _ isn’t _ nice? I’ve had this shop for over a century!”

“I just meant—”

“And yes, the Yelp reviews aren’t stellar, I’ll grant you, but many of them specifically mention how lovely the shop itself is before they complain about the customer service!”

Crowley hangs his head in defeat and shuffles off to the sofa.

***

“If I could rearrange the alphabet,” Crowley says over Middle Eastern food, “I’d put U and I together.”

Aziraphale sets down a falafel sandwich the size of his head, swallows, and wipes some errant tzatziki from the corner of his mouth. “Why on earth would you do that? I mean, certainly you _ could_, since the order of the alphabet is arbitrary, but… I’d have to redo all my filing!” He appears to be picturing the scenario, judging by the look of distress that flits across his face.

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Is this another of your attempts to sow demonic chaos? Because you remember how the M25 worked out for you.”

Crowley sighs. “Never mind.”

***

They’re walking through St. James Park when Crowley tries again.

“Do you have any raisins? No? Then how about—”

“You know, I believe I do!” Aziraphale begins patting his various pockets. “It’s important to always have a healthful snack on hand.” After what amounts to a full-body self-frisking, he unearths a tiny, somewhat crushed box of raisins and hands them to Crowley. “Here you are!”

Crowley glares at the box he’s now holding. It can’t contain more than six raisins.

Aziraphale leans in conspiratorially. “Did you know, they say that raisins are nature’s candy?”

“Great. Thanks.”

Crowley throws the box in a rubbish bin when Aziraphale isn’t looking.

***

“You know what would look great on you?” Crowley asks one afternoon, as Aziraphale reads in a nearby easy chair.

Aziraphale doesn’t look up from his book. “Hm?”

“Me.”

“Snakeskin isn’t really my style,” Aziraphale says absently.

***

“There’s only one thing I want to change about you,” Crowley blurts out when Aziraphale hands him a mug of tea.

Disappointment flits across Aziraphale’s face. “Oh? What is it?”

“Your last name.”

Disappointment is replaced by confusion. “I don’t have a last name. _ Should _ I have a last name? I suppose I’d blend in better with the humans.” He adds milk to his tea and stirs thoughtfully. “I could use Fell, I suppose. If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it, as they say.”

“You don’t— it’s not— _ argh_. Don’t change your name. It was a joke.”

Aziraphale sips his tea. “Oh. I’m afraid I don’t ‘get’ it.”

“Never mind.”

***

“Is it hot in here, or is it just you?”

“I suppose I am a little warm. It wouldn’t hurt to loosen my tie.”

Crowley accidentally snaps one of his chopsticks in two at the sight of Aziraphale’s clavicle, then quickly miracles it back together.

***

“I hope you know CPR, because you take my breath away.”

“You don’t need to breathe, dear. And I confess I never bothered to learn CPR, what with the, you know.” Aziraphale wiggles his fingers magically.

***

“Was your father a thief? ’Cause someone stole—”

“_Crowley_! That is _ blasphemy_!”

***

“Your legs must be tired.”

“Am I walking oddly?”

“From running through my mind all night.”

“What? I’ve been right here in my bookshop, Crowley. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wouldn’t go into your mind without permission.”

***

“Do you have a mirror in your pocket?”

“No, I don’t believe so. Why, did you need one?”

“Because I can see myself in your trousers.”

“_Tsk_. These wouldn’t fit you at all. And have you _ ever _ worn ecru?”

***

Eventually, Crowley gives up. Clearly what works on humans doesn’t work on an angel who, despite being an inveterate bibliophile and literally older than dirt, wouldn’t recognize a figure of speech if it ran up to him and clanged cymbals in his face.

Crowley will just… _ want, _ instead.

***

“Did it hurt?” Aziraphale asks one day as they’re lounging in the shop’s back room waiting for dinner service to begin at the new Indian restaurant down the street.

“Did what hurt?” Crowley looks down at himself to see if he’s managed to sustain some sort of injury.

“When you fell from Heaven,” Aziraphale says mildly.

Crowley feels like he’s just been stabbed through with a flaming sword. He wishes he were wearing his sunglasses because he knows his eyes are telegraphing his emotions. “Of _ course _ it did. Fuck, Aziraphale, why would you even ask that?”

“I didn’t—”

“Are you trying to rub it in or something? I’ve never known you to be cruel.”

Aziraphale holds out his hands in placation. “That’s not— my dear—”

“I’m going.” Crowley stands up and snags his jacket from the back of the sofa.

“The internet site suggested it!”

Crowley stops mid-step. Aziraphale’s face is pallid, and distress is radiating off him in waves. Crowley sighs and drops back down to the sofa. “Explain.”

“That mirror thing struck me as rather queer so I put it into the Google—”

“—It’s just Google, angel—”

“—and I found a list of ‘pick up lines.’” Aziraphale articulates every word in the phrase with the precision of someone trying out a new language. Crowley tries and fails not to find it charming, even as his stomach begins to churn with anxiety at the thought of being caught out. “And then I realized what you had been doing, and I didn’t know how else to show you that I was interested.”

The churning in Crowley’s stomach moves up into his chest. “Interested in… what, exactly?”

Color returns to Aziraphale’s face with renewed vigor, and he becomes inordinately interested in removing lint from the arm of the sofa. “Interested in— in what people who say those things are usually interested in. Romance, and the— er— concomitant activities.”

“Concomitant activities,” Crowley echoes with a smirk, because it would be undemonlike to jump to his feet and begin fist-pumping in joy and relief.

“_Anyway_,” Aziraphale continues, “most of them made no sense, but then I found one that seemed so apt, it was as though it had been tailor-made for our situation!” His face falls. “I must have messed it up somehow.”

Crowley takes a moment to silently wonder how someone so smart could be so incredibly stupid. “It’s not _ supposed _ to be apt, Aziraphale. It’s supposed to be a compliment, implying that the person is an angel.”

Aziraphale chews on this idea and appears to find it distasteful. “Why would I want you to be an angel? I love you just as you are.”

“You—” Crowley’s head spins. It’s one thing to imply it, but another to just come right out and _ say _ it. The warmth of Aziraphale’s love is palpable, enveloping Crowley like the world’s coziest blanket. Crowley can’t form the words to respond yet — for once, he’s the one who needs more time — so instead he grabs Aziraphale’s hand and brings it to his mouth, laying a fervent kiss upon his knuckles.

Aziraphale beams and his eyes sparkle.

***

“I should have used the other one,” Aziraphale remarks, as they walk hand-in-hand to the Ritz. (They’d nixed their original dinner plans when Aziraphale said that they should do something special to celebrate, and that Indian food tended to make him a bit gassy besides, which would put a damper on any post-dinner necking. Crowley had manfully resisted the urge to mock his use of “necking” because, well, he really did want to get on with the necking.) 

“Huh?”

“The other line I found, I mean.”

“Which was…?”

“Lovely brogues, would you care to copulate?”

Crowley bites his own tongue hard enough to make him glad he can spontaneously heal. “That’s… not exactly how it goes, angel.”

“I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.” Aziraphale pouts, glancing at Crowley out of the corner of his eyes the way he does when he’s desperately willing Crowley to do something without Aziraphale having to ask for it. 

Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s hand. “Hey, are you from Nashville?”

“Er… no?”

“Because you’re the only ten I see.”

“Ten of what?”

“It means you’re perfect.” Crowley clears his throat. “...My love.”

A pleased blush stains Aziraphale’s cheeks as he smiles at the ground. At the Ritz, a waiter finds himself placing a bottle of Clos du Mesnil on ice at an empty table, although he has no idea why.


End file.
